Sunday morning means pancakes. Or waffles. But usually pancakes. The smell of fresh batter being stirred in the mixing bowl is heavenly, worth the weekly wait in and of itself. That doesn’t even count the cakes on the griddle, tanning on one side and then the other, transforming from an oatmeal like substance into fully formed pancakes, ready to be eaten quickly with fork, knife, and syrup.

Oh, and butter. But I can’t eat regular butter. Cholesterol is an unsightly beast that takes away the glory of taste when trying to defeat it. So I extricate my tub of fake butter from the refrigerator. They dress it up to look pretty, and they promise that it will taste just like real butter (Par-Kay! — Butter!), but it doesn’t, and by now I’ve made my peace with it. It still melts on the piping hot pancakes, so I forgive it its non-butterness. There are worse things in life.

Then there’s the other griddle where the meat resides. Or I should say fake meat. Being a vegetarian has its positives and its negatives, and fake meat is neither. It’s soy-based product that heats up nicely, neatly, and efficiently. And it smells divine, almost like soy was an animal that we slaughtered behind the barn this morning, so fresh and so clean. Look ma, no blood. I like its taste, which is a bonus, but I have absolutely no idea if it tastes like real meat.

Heidi says it doesn’t, but that it doesn’t matter. It has its own good taste, so we should accept it on faith. Or something like that. I don’t mind, because I’ve never had anything different. I’m used to fake everything, so bring on the fake meat. It cooks up well, but it doesn’t stay hot long so I eat it while I can, before it starts to cool, before it gets cold like last night’s pizza. Because then it’s no good.

We move through like cows through a milking dairy, automatons with one thing on our minds, plates firmly in our hands, accepting our manna from heaven in the form of slightly round shaped pancakes made with love. Made with eggs, and oil, and mix, and whatever else goes into them. Some day I’ll find out exactly how it works, or maybe I won’t. Because pancake morning is magical, and I don’t want to shift the picture or it might reveal something I don’t want to see. Periphery is everything.

Sunday morning means pancakes. And not every Sunday, but even just the idea of pancakes is enough to inspire. Or so I’ve been told.